


Ante Up

by htebazytook



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, PWP, Romance, Season 2, Slash, Smut, episode all in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-28
Updated: 2009-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Pretty prominently PWP.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Ante Up

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty prominently PWP.

**Title:** Ante Up  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** House/Wilson  
 **Time Frame:** Set during 2.17, 'All In'.  
 **Author's Notes:** Pretty prominently PWP.

 

 

"You said something about messing with me in person?"

Dawn would sneak over the horizon any minute, but for now the air was blue and quiet and most of all empty. It wasn't really warm enough to be outside but they were. House looked over at him, Wilson mostly in his tux and House mostly not. Watched Wilson shimmy over the divider and come to stand next to him.

"Thought I already did." He was too tired to keep it out of his voice, but Wilson had been on to him before now. It was a lost cause anyway with Wilson on the prowl for do-goodery. "I've been in a checkmate with this stupid mystery-disease for way too fucking long." More of a nuisance than a challenge by now and probably not worth his time. Still . . .

"Huh. Thought you'd make a poker analogy."

"I'm just full of surprises," House said, morose to the bone.

"Oh captain, my captain," Wilson sighed, patting House on the back.

House was silent for a moment. Then, "Wanna make out?"

More silence. Well, if House listened closely he could hear the sweet sound of Wilson's brain imploding.

His eyes lifted, stared. "Is that a no?"

Wilson was a flurry of response. Twitchy style of shrug, blink, stammer, none of it directed at House, of course. "I appreciate the come on, House, I really do," he said, falling gratefully back on sarcasm. Clearly he thought House was just trying to shock him, which was a part of it, admittedly. "But we both have to be at work and functioning in two hours, and I'm thinking actual sleep might be a good thing."

House shook his head. "No— _you_ have to be at work and functioning in two hours. And anyway it takes you at least one and a half of those hours to do your hair. You might as well just give up now on _sleeping_."

It occurred to House that their gazes were slightly locked. This could work.

He waggled his eyebrows, effectively breaking the mood enough for Wilson to roll his eyes and head back to his office. But House caught his arm and when Wilson turned back around it was like a vast and complicated layer of reality fell away and left Wilson as nothing but a primal entity, terribly ripe with possibility, and cheeks flushed, and lips parted.

"Hey, don't knock it 'till you've tried it." House was still advancing disjointedly, and Wilson looked distinctly hypnotized. Hard to tell with his lopsided gaze, though.

"I have tried it," Wilson protested half-heartedly.

House dragged him closer by the front of his shirt until they wound up kissing. Wilson uttered something, little grunt of confusion, but was definitely kissing back. In fact his hand clutched at House's sleeve and when House changed the angle of the kiss it slipped deeper thrillingly quickly and Wilson let loose a much more emphatic noise. Breathed out through his nose. House could feel his hair tickling the side of his face and couldn't understand why his mind focused on this rather than the lovely manner in which Wilson's tongue ran along his or the increasingly heated breaths that escaped between their lips. House felt the kiss getting sloppy and was conspiring to hold Wilson's head properly in place when he pulled back with a wet sound.

"Hold on . . . you haven't figured out what's wrong with Ian," Wilson accused. "Why aren't you doing that?"

House sighed. Did little to clear his head—well, loins. "I hit a dead end. The kids are scampering around doing my bidding. And unless I get an epiphany in the next hour he's probably dead anyway."

Wilson blinked, and the swollen, slippery look of his lips when he spoke effectively canceled House's plans for rationality. He didn't even play the _Can't let a_ kid _die!_ card: "I don't believe you. I don't believe you would give up just like that." Suspicion. Eyebrows knit. Knit even more when House encouraged Wilson securely back against the divider.

"I'm not giving up; I'm multitasking." True enough. House was hurt that people so seldom gave him credit for telling the truth—he told the truth more than anybody he knew. Especially Wilson.

House was leaning in but Wilson was three steps ahead as usual, crafty bastard, and pulled House up against him without further ado, mouths resuming their own argument with ease. And Wilson was winning for awhile, hands digging into House's back, clenching and relaxing in time with his breathing. Those little half-moans of his were so debilitating that House's brain started a separate file on them right before it shut down altogether and arrived at the absurdly vital realization that Wilson felt unreasonably _good_ right in the middle of their mouths joining and rejoining and really, really _good_ . . . Let his hands drag up Wilson's sides—where had that silly old cane got to anyway?—and land in his hair, used it to tug him to a new angle, let his fingers twist a smidgeon too tightly just 'cause. Opened his eyes for a second to watch Wilson's scrunch closed in concentration—even hidden they seemed dangerously all-knowing—felt the moan in his mouth and the breathlessness in his tensing body, reminded all over again of the way they were pressed against each other. Wilson wrenched free from the kiss, head flung to the side and presenting House with some excellent notions about licking Wilson's neck or ear or jaw if he started blabbing again, which of course he did.

"So . . . you think maybe making out with your best friend might scare this epiphany out of its hiding place?" It was unfair that Wilson could stay so composed in the face of unbridled lust or whatever.

House detached himself briefly and shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe. But let us not forget the matter of that thing you do with your tongue."

Wilson started to say something but House cut him off with another kiss. Lighter this time, all clinging lips and humid gasps and unexpectedly engrossing. Soft details over House's rising heart rate. Wilson's hands continued winding and unwinding and scrabbled at House's shoulders restlessly all the while so that he stayed fastened to him even when House decided it might be time to not-so-subtly maneuver Wilson into his office.

"One instance of drunken kissing in front of tawdry British television does not a relationship make," Wilson pointed out between the part where the balcony door swung open too fast and he landed against a wall with House trapping him there.

"Ah, but you _assured_ me that you weren't drunk. And I was thinking more along the lines of 'fuck buddy'."

Wilson laughed, but complied with House's contradictory kiss. He shivered, betrayed it in his inhale and the influence of his now wide open eyes made House's own breath catch. They froze and the mood modulated. Eyes flickered down and House cleared his throat and backed off a little, fiddled with the buttons on Wilson's perfectly-pressed shirt, started to untuck it.

Wilson watched House undressing him like it was some kind of out of body experience. "In . . . spite of the suspicious gathering of empty beer bottles. Yes, clearly I wasn't drunk."

"Hey," House defended, "I didn't say you weren't—I just said that you said you weren't. Big difference."

" _Shutup_ ," Wilson murmured quietly around House's mouth. Suddenly House was mesmerized by his nearness and returned the nudging kiss until Wilson seemed on the verge of a satisfying moan.

House spoke again, quietly, triumphantly: "Not drunk now, anyway." And there was a question in there—House's taste buds were in working order after all. He kissed down Wilson's throat in the meantime, worked his collar open.

"No—well . . . no. Not really . . ."

"Don't sweat it, I don't actually give a damn."

"Oh, good." It was like they'd settled something.

Wilson's buttons seemed so much easier to undo than his own. None of that starchy, bought it for so-and-so's wedding resistance. Was Wilson wearing tuxes on a regular basis or what? More specifically, was he being undressed in one a regular basis? House was never sure how much of Wilson really was the oncological Lothario House liked to tease him about, but not knowing certainly kept him interesting.

House yanked at Wilson's bowtie until it turned into fluttery ribbon between them, threw it aside to concentrate on his shirt, saw it float lazily to the floor out of the corner of his eye. He sighed. Of course _Wilson_ would insist on wearing approximately seventeen undershirts.

Wilson's hands were distractingly restless, mapping arms and back and slicing through hair every so often when he wanted to kiss. When was Wilson going to get to work on House's clothes, anyway? The thought fled quickly since House could now (miraculously) slide his palms up Wilson's torso under the final undershirt and suck at his neck and listen to fast, heated breathing in his ear.

"You know, House. A normal person would feel some measure of guilt for taking advantage of my drunken self." Who was this breathy, lustful creature and what had it done with Wilson?

"That's funny because I thought said you _weren't_. Again. You lied to me— _cad_ ," House hissed, attacking Wilson's mouth which was hanging open dumbly and wet and red. Wilson had stopped tasting like beer, in any case. "But don't worry, it's not taking advantage if we're both on drugs." House wondered why he was harping on this. Maybe he'd ingested more alcohol than House had assumed. It hadn't mattered last time, though; it didn't matter now. The correct dosage of Vicodin helped House think; apparently, the correct dosage of booze helped Wilson become more agreeable in the best possible way. House didn't see what the big deal about this was—shaping behavior through drug use was kind of what they did for a living.

Wilson laughed. "Oh, if we're going to assume _that_ logic then anyone who interacts with you on a daily basis is taking advantage of you."

"I think I'm okay with that since I prefer to 'interact', as you call it, with you—" And his words got cut off in the messy onslaught of Wilson's kiss.

"So you want me to take advantage of you?" Wilson breathed, not waiting for an answer before diving back in. He was finally on the right track with removing House's clothes, although clawing at his belt didn't seem to be getting it undone any sooner.

Dumbest question ever. " _Oh_ , yeah."

Wilson tugged him closer by his hips and House felt his eyes widen stupidly. Since when was Wilson in control? He pushed Wilson's hands away and unbuckled the offending belt, kissed Wilson again as an afterthought and soon couldn't remember what he'd been doing. Luckily Wilson jumped in, made quick work of House's fly and pressed up against him, head on his shoulder and breath hot on his neck and his hand was on House's cock through boxers that probably weren't quite black tie enough. House would bet on Wilson wearing more appropriately dressy undergarments.

Wilson was biting vaguely at his neck as he set a pace. His hands were wider and squarer than House's bony, artistic-looking ones and they felt kind of amazing on his cock. Strong strokes overwhelming him. And then Wilson asked House if it was good and House had to close his eyes when Wilson's hand slipped around his boxers and gratefully onto skin and jerked him faster, still licking and biting wherever he could reach.

House hated to think it, but _God_ , Wilson was better at this than any mere hooker. Why the hell didn't he think of molesting Wilson sooner? He was more than easy on the eyes, and he cared so damn much it was almost too easy . . .

House pushed Wilson back against the wall, his body heat departing, pulled Wilson's open shirt farther apart and kissed his collarbone, held his head back to expose his throat while the other hand rubbed his erection through his clothes. Wilson moaned just in time for it to vibrate into House's mouth.

House kept kissing his throat while attempting to divest Wilson of his belt and undo his fly, and Wilson was so impatient he finally just helped him and muttered, "Oh, God, come on, _touch_ me," and gasped when House complied, thrust unconsciously into his hand, look of delight on his face and coloring his voice: "You do, _ah_ , realize your office . . . is a veritable fish bowl." House wasn't sure if he wanted Wilson to shut up or not. Wondered if his interjections were nervousness or reluctance or—Wilson's hand wrapped around his cock again, teasing fingers trailing up and down. Well, apparently not reluctance.

So there they were, lame handjobs in the wee hours of the morning while House put off his case. Except it felt a hell of a lot more gratifying and _hot_ and important than was at all logical.

"Everyone's at the party," House replied belatedly and maybe even a little breathlessly. Wilson's mouth along his jaw may have had something to do with it. "And the Rugrats are too scared to keep me updated on the Esther-incarnate anymore."

House's hand sped up and Wilson was getting boneless and nonsensical against him, breathing obscenities into his ear and forgetting to keep his own hand moving. "Still," Wilson managed, "I would like to remind you that glass is far from sound-proof. _Ah_ , fuck . . . yes . . . "

House kept trying to guesstimate Wilson's body temperature but it was fluctuating, way too high in some places and relatively normal-feeling in others. He was so wonderfully warm in the chilly blue pre-dawn world and House was glad he had a sexual excuse to have Wilson draped over him.

Wilson's eyes were scrunched closed except right before he moaned or cursed and then they'd flicker into life and roll back and close tightly again. And whenever House jerked him harder Wilson increased his death grip on House's arm like it was the only way to communicate how good it felt.

"What are you trying to prove?" Way too much concern in Wilson's rusty voice.

"This is just a distraction, stop reading so much into it," House said hurriedly, trying to concentrate on the tightness around his cock.

" _Ah_ ," Wilson replied, half agreement and half rapture. His body seemed useless for support and his weight sank entirely onto House, too overwhelmed by now to do his part and both of his hands dug into House's skin desperately, head on House's shoulder and soft unthinking words amplified in House's ear. "Ah, ahfuck, _just keep going keep going keep_ mm, fuck, so good . . . _ah_ . . . "

" _God_ you are so much less boring than people think," House said, half to himself, mind too consumed with cataloguing Wilson's abandon, taking in clothing and scent and Wilson's words and the hardness of his cock, the blunt press of Wilson's frantic fingers only registering as additional pleasure. Wilson couldn’t stop moving in tandem with House's hand and House had to steady him with his free hand on Wilson's hip, felt his own breath catching because Wilson's did and jerked him faster and faster and drank in Wilson's atonal sounds and Wilson's lost expression and soon enough he came all over House's hand, whatever he ended up shouting muffled against House's shoulder.

Wilson wasted no time basking, pushed House back until he was perched on the edge of his desk (something falling to the floor), gripped House's aching cock and beginning a slow, strong rhythm. House had to close his eyes at the sight of Wilson flushed and bleary-eyed and pleasured and intent on him, but then he felt lips nudging at his and succumbed to Wilson's lazy kiss. The unhurried pace after Wilson's recent urgency threw him off, sexy and shocking set against the orgasm building in his body. Wilson's wonderful capable hand accelerating and his addictive mouth sucking at House's and when he made a little noise in response to House's low moan House knew it was all going to be over very quickly and he came with another moan into Wilson's pliant mouth, Wilson _mm_ -ing and kissing him like it meant something before withdrawing.

He returned with tissues and handed some to House. They were both still panting like nobody's business and House felt the beginnings of an elephant in the room while they stared at each other, but all House cared about were the chances of getting laid when they got back home. Deleting Wilson's messages had definitely been the right call.

House weighed the pros and cons of telling Wilson his hair would've been hot as hell if only he could stop comparing him to Albert Einstein, and not in a flattering way. However, the knowledge of his devastated hair would only cause Wilson unnecessary stress and, more importantly, nix any potential future embarrassment when Cameron or somebody pointed it out.

He waited until Wilson had gone to collapse into a chair, scramble around his desk for the Vicodin bottle and shove a liberal cluster of pills into his mouth. He was impressed with himself for ignoring the pain until now, though.

 

*

 

When Wilson finally reemerged from his office House was taken aback by how put together he looked, bow-tie perfectly in place and everything, and wondered if the sex had all been some kind of hallucination. For his part, House wasn't about to bother with a tie of any description until the next time he was due in court, and maybe not even then.

"Hey," Wilson said, overly casual, overly _cheerful_ , in fact. Or caffeinated—they probably frowned on hungover oncology, too. It was all either a very good or a very bad sign.

"We can talk about it tomorrow." House could practically taste Wilson's anxiousness, watched him start to retreat out of the corner of his eye, maybe even held his breath just a little bit.

Wilson turned back around.

 

*


End file.
